The Everborn - Nicholas Grabowsky [152]
If Melony was to name any one single most determined son-of-a-bitch aside from her husband, it would be Matt McGregor, hands down. Way down. Next to Max, he demonstrated the soundest and strongest-willed of minds. Yet the rock he’d crawled under since the church attic drama weighed him down so painfully that his only recourse was to burrow in denial.
Melony found a discussion over their late traumas to be pointless with him, let alone any hopes of support or encouragement. Matt’s own family and career clearly suffered from his chronic declination of spirit, but Melony completely understood.
Mel acquired a related affliction.
And besides, the only rationality among the insane was to not discuss it, for what was one to do? What action could be taken? Alert the FBI? Expose their dilemma to unempathetic ears only inevitably headlining the Weekly World News and not getting anywhere anyway?
Before, with her husband’s research, her own personal ‘big picture’ of the way the world worked seemed real enough with only the facts and theories to cling to. Nowadays, the fruition of his research now simply hit too close to home for her to know what to do.
When Melony’s visit to her physician unveiled a pregnancy where the inception should have taken place a couple months prior to her night with Andrew...it was enough cause for anyone to think twice about speaking at all.
When Matt’s comforting words concerning loss and goodbyes fell upon the ears of Maxwell’s distressed wife, her inner convictions evoked an immediate (if not rudely immediate) response:
“My husband’s alive. He’s out, there somewhere, existing under the control of his captors I suppose, existing beyond my ability to reach him and to let him know my regrets about our shortcomings and how much I really love him. He’s out there, wherever he is, and here am, wherever I am. Don’t dish me a rehearsed speech about goodbyes and the loss of loved ones. It may have done good for the poor unfortunate Bradshaws, but it’s just not the case with me and my husband.”
***
My husband is still alive.
His body wasn’t found.
***
“I am my greatest mystery,” Melony spoke aloud somberly as she awoke from a deep sleep of mysteries. She heard herself say it, understood what she said, but didn’t understand what she meant by it. She was certain she’d woken herself by saying it.
She lifted her head nestled by cradled arms to discover she was seated slumped forward upon a chair...
...before her own outdated electronic typewriter...and found the words typed upon the inserted and otherwise blank page:
MY HUSBAND IS STILL ALIVE.
HIS BODY WASN’T FOUND.
She couldn’t recall typing those words. She couldn’t remember what she’d been doing upstairs to begin with, let alone how she’d fallen fast asleep in her office workspace.
She couldn’t have been asleep for more than a half hour.
And then the doorbell rang.
***
Trick-or-treaters.
Melony stood from the typewriter as abruptly as if to salute an officer, attentive and wide awake with the exception of a lingering post-dream-state haze, and bustled herself out of the upstairs office and down the stairs to instinctually greet tonight’s first group of Halloween trick-or-treaters.
On her way down, the weariness of her body forced herself to a slow stroll; she’d momentarily forgotten that she was with Andrew’s child, most certainly with somebody’s child (that was for damn sure), her memory jarred by an uncomfortable nausea and she clenched her belly.
At the foot of the stairs, she avoided the front door, sidestepping into the living room and meeting her own reflection on the work of mirror-art upon the wall opposite her and above the couch.
Her reflection never quite seemed real anymore, not to Melony, not to someone